Skyedive
by flytreys
Summary: The Murkoff Corporation was well known for being a dangerous and corrupt company that reopened Mount Massive Asylum, an old sanatorium, under the guise of a charitable organization. They were capable of everything - anything -, but they couldn't possibly imagine that there was one person who could overpower them. Most of all, they couldn't imagine it lived in the skin of a woman.
1. Freeflying

Office A-110 was composed of three walls in suede and a single one in dark red, which was opposed to the front door and on which a framed painting of flowers laid hanging with simplicity. A few steps ahead, a nice table was harmoniously flanked by two chairs in golden wood and scarlet upholstery. The floor was covered in an imitation of a Persian carpet in coppery tones, and, while a beige couch offered a comfortable resting place on the left side of the room, there were two doors at its right, one leading to a medium-sized bathroom and the other leading to a bedroom.

August 19th, 2013

Skye Patzke ran her tapered fingers through her Tiffany Infinity necklace and sighed. As though being free of any care in the world, she rose of her comfortable seat and walked to the bathroom with the grace of a runway model.

After looking in the huge mirror next to the sink, she crinkled her eyebrows. Her black pencil skirt, a piece of the garment that Mount Massive Asylum — a large sanatorium located in a remote spot of the mountains of Lake County, Colorado — imposed as uniform for its female employees, valued her sexy curves, exposing her calves and also part of her thighs, for she made sure to customize it by cutting impeccable side slits in it. Fitting her torso graciously, there was a feminine white blouse with a single ruffle cascading down both sides of the placket.

Even at the age of twenty five, the psychiatrist did not seem to have abandoned the vivid freshness that only teenage people had: her oval face, with angular cheekbones and a smooth chin, consisted of such preciousness that anyone with eyes to see would say it might as well have been carved out of a diamond rock. She had a pair of expressive arched eyebrows that stood high above her large almond-shaped grey eyes, which were surrounded by long, dark lashes. A little below the region of her eyeballs, her perfect straight-edged nose coexisted in harmony with her full lips, and all the pieces that made up that beautiful face vied for attention with each other — the result of the dispute, as expected, was a draw. Her delicate skull was crowned by a silky and rich cascade of black hair, which was always glossy. At that time, due to her work routine, though, the owner of that entire splendor decided it would be more appropriate to keep the shiny locks in a ponytail.

She gazed at the mirror for the last time as she turned to her side a little in order to find out if there were any marks on her skirt left by her underwear. Over her shoulder, concluding that everything was perfect with her enviable butt, she winked at her reflection and returned to stand face to face with it, thoughtful: something was missing. Quickly, she unfastened four buttons of her blouse, a red bra showing off discreetly in her newly formed cleavage.

"Perfect." As usual, once approving her figure, she licked the tip of her index finger and used it to touch the top of her left breast. Immediately, the sound of cold water colliding with a red-hot steel bar broke into the bathroom, and a thin wisp of smoke rose from the spot she touched. Letting a lovely laugh escape through her lips, she shook her head and headed for her desk. Since she had nothing to do yet, she began organizing at least ten bouquets of roses - sent by her secret admirers, who were obviously employees of the asylum with some purchasing power, though - left on top of her belongings earlier that morning.

After rereading the file of her last patient, Patzke rolled her eyes. At that point, there was nothing more outdated to the psychiatrist than reading about the crimes committed by the sanatorium inmates, atrocities that had put them in forced confinement for almost endless years. When she thought she was about to doze off on her papers, the shrill ringing of the phone calcified the numbness of the atmosphere. The noise would have startled anyone immersed in the dispersed state which the woman was in, but that was not her case. Stretching her exemplar posture, she used one of her French manicured hands to answer the call.

"You have reached the _faaabulous_ Skye Patzke. How can I assist you?" She asked, using her rehearsed playfulness. Her voice, although it could suffer modifications depending on her state of mind, was often as charming as the purr of a cat and as juvenile as a teenage party. Since no one was watching, however, she didn't bother displaying any kind of smile.

"Ms. Patzke?" The guy on the line was putting on a professional tone, using it in a strategic mode, according to what the psychiatrist's avid brain fancied, to conceal a hint of shyness. "You have an appointment with a patient in five minutes."

All of a sudden, his announcement made that afternoon's proposal interesting. Finally, it would be time for a little fun!

"Sounds like fun." Before the young doctor could contain her words, she expelled them with ease. There was a short silence on the other end of the line, during which the man seemed confused.

"Uh, would you like to have the name and number of the patient to the documentation of the session?"

She kept a silence for a few seconds, playing with a pen. After not having to make any effort to search her mind for something to say, she spoke:

"Tell me, Hilton..."

"Yes, Ms." And, suddenly, just as if he had got some real good news, he seemed excited that his voice was recognized and linked to his name by her.

"Do you work at NASA?"

"Huh? No."

"Then why are you spacing?" Only then, to make it clear she was only joking, the doctor released a charming laughter, and Hilton left aside the outrage that he was supposed to feel, but that never managed to get to him, and laughed too. "Of course I would like to have the name and the number of the patient."

"Very well, then." After clearing his throat, he continued. "His name is Dennis Fink, and his patient number is 139. Age: 35."

After writing the current date down on a paper, Skye tapped her fingers on the table, and the noise of her long nails hitting the wood could be heard over the phone.

"What are you waiting for? Send him _iii-in_." She sang and, without saying good-bye, put the handset on the receiver. With a carefree smile on her lips and her chin up, she kept waiting until, a few minutes later, someone finally knocked on the door. "Come in."

Two security guards — Peter Kane, the bid-nosed, and Chase Finch, the hunchback — invaded the room escorting a tall, but sickly figure. In another office, they would proceed without ceremonies, but, in that one, they halted, astounded, with their eyes fixed on the image of Patzke. She smiled with breadth, her glistening white teeth popping against her deliciously red lips, and, after a few moments, snapped her fingers to wake both men up from the trance. Clumsy, with nothing left to say, one of them sat Dennis with brutality in a chair, and the other, waving the vision of the doctor's perfect cleavage away from his mind, prepared himself to restrict the movements of the patient with leather straps.

"That won't be necessary." She was the first to break the silence, her sexy voice dancing in the air.

"Ms. Patzke, I should warn you that, although this patient may be mostly harmless, not containing his movements is against the rules of this company." Authoritatively, almost recovered from the shock of moments ago, Kane said while looking at her over his shoulder.

As soon as the brunette psychiatrist processed the security man's words, her eyelids lowered. She raised herself slowly from her seat and leaned towards the table, bending over it with her hands. Only then, she opened her eyes.

"This is my office. Everyone plays by _my_ rules." Suddenly, her voice seemed more dark and loaded, as if it belonged to someone else, while something in her eyes made Chase and Peter shiver from head to toe. No wonder: the spark in her gray iris had shifted from a gentle wit to a demonic glow in moments that ran too fast to be accounted. Immediately, the men turned their back to her and started squeezing through the doorjamb, competing to see who would get out of there first. When the door was slammed shut, Patzke sat, crossed her long legs and stared at the tragic creature in front of her.

" _Hullo_ , Dennis Fink." She began, but being suddenly interrupted made one of her eyebrows shoot up.

"You are the prettiest girl I've ever seen." An effeminate tone left the patient's vocal cords, followed by a low and manly one. "Timmy, I told you so many times: grow some hair on your pecker before you start flirting around."

As fast as a lightning bolt would flash through the night sky, a strong indication of DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, was scored on Dennis' file.

"How many people are you, _sweeties_?" Skye decided to leave the formal and introductory part out of the appointment, since it would be more interesting to pair her speech with the now predictable fantasy of that individual in her office. With her chin up and watchful eyes, she removed a MAC Russian Red of her purse, applied a fresh layer and rubbed her lips together.

"F-F-Four." A third modification of his voice broke into the dialogue.

"And how long have you been living together?"

"I-I-It's been so long... W-W-We d-d-don't even remember anymore."

"What is the quality of the relationship between you? Friendly, maybe?"

"Cowards and idiots, all of them." What looked like the oldest one of the personalities replied. "Shame of my loins!"

The psychiatrist looked at the upper-left corner of the office and caught sight of a security camera. In any other institution, monitoring psychiatric interviews would be acknowledged as a crime against privacy due to the obvious extremely unethical nature of such a thing. However, that place was Mount Massive Asylum.

"There's some tension right there." She started by narrowing her eyes at the device that was recording the session, like trying to see it better. "Stress in a very high dose for _only one_ person." And her last words were italicized with derision and followed by a mocking smile. Fink, however, only shrugged in response.

"We've got _worser_ problems." His low and raspy tone returned.

"Tell me about it." Carefree, the therapist put the file that corresponded to the inmate over a carbon layer, which was positioned over a new blank page. Focused, she began taking some notes that she considered relevant about her patient: _"There are strong indications that the patient Dennis Fink suffers from DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, illness formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder. According to my observations, his are five personas: three of them are unidentified, but one is potentially authoritarian; one has a slight speech impediment; one seems to belong to an elder male; one points toward a sexually inexperienced young man named Timmy; and his own, which he almost doesn't show. If the diagnosis is well-founded, the use of cognitive behavioral therapy, combined with hypnotherapy, is highly recommended"_. She touched her chin with the tip of her pen, thoughtful. When the idea she was looking for came to her mind, she started writing again.

 _"Fink's current mental state indicates little convenience to the requirements of the Morphogenic Engine Program. It would be preferable to wait for improvements on the patient's psychic condition so he can respond more satisfactorily to the experiments."_

The patient seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if dealing with an internal conflict. Probably, he was.

"We are concerned about The Groom."

Without need to worry, the brunette tilted her head to the right.

"God knows what will happen to us if we don't find a goat to feed him before our gender is on the line."

And, as soon as she heard those words, she cracked up into her delicate palm.

"Your _gender_? You mean your 'dicks', right? What a goody-goody language."

"What are you laughing at? This is serious!" Dennis clearly did not understand what was so funny about his words. So, he pulled himself up from his seat in a threatening way. Skye's smile did not die, but her eyes shifted to that same satanic, spooky glow.

"Sit down."

Immediately, without even knowing why he was complying, the inmate fell on the chair.

"He needs a bride. We give him other flesh, and he s-s-spares ours."

"The Groom would be an inmate who uses physical torture as a tool of intimidation, I suppose."

"He's the devil himself..." Timmy said, trembling.

There was a moment of silence, during which Patzke checked her impeccable image in a pocket mirror, submerged in apparent apathy to the outside world.

"Above the knees, below the navel, sliced and sewn on his table. To make a place to push inside, The Groom will make himself a bride." Dennis started babbling the words over and over again, as if he suddenly got into some kind of trance.

"Gentlemen," Taunting one more time, she said while she consulted her Tiffany Cocktail wristwatch. "It's quite possible that I've got other patients to see. Is there a point to your madness here?"

The man ignored her and continued to recite the verses until he felt that dark look upon him again. The horrible feeling was more than enough for his mouth to shut up, because fear and uncertainty went through every fiber of his flesh.

"Much better!" Exclaiming, the young psychiatrist grabbed the phone's handset, dialed a few numbers and waited for somebody to take her call. " _Hullo_ , the patient is ready to go." Turning back to Dennis, she smiled.

"If we give the Groom a real woman, maybe he'd leave us alone forever." Timmy came back to the surface, suggesting, as the gaze of the body he was confined in rested in the sexy figure at the other side of the desk. "Do not dream so high, Timmy, you stupid brat! Of course the Groom would kill her too. He does not spare anyone."

"What an _ah-dorable_ idea. Who knows? Maybe I should pay him a visit." With her hands resting on her papers and an expression that mixed excitement and sarcasm on her face, she mockingly celebrated his suggestion.

"Ma'am?" A calling came from the other side of the door, muffled by it.

"Come in." Skye said, crossing her hands over her cervix and waiting patiently. Kane and Finch entered cautiously, as if expecting to find a different place altogether than the one they had left an hour ago. "Dennis behaved in an exemplary manner." The young doctor extended the envelope containing the original patient file to the hunchback, keeping a secret copy to herself. The man, who could have sworn she had read his thoughts, took the document, and, without further delay, both security guards grabbed the inmate by his arms and escorted him out.

Fifteen minutes later, the office's phone ringed once more. Patzke, who had her voluptuous crossed legs resting on the table, answered it with disdain.

"You have reached the _faaabulous_ Skye Patzke. What can I do to assist you?"

"Ms. Patzke?" While twisting the phone's wire around her index finger, she didn't have to search her memory a lot to recognize the voice of the caller. Shrugging, she assumed a casual, but seductive tone. As incredible as it seemed, that was not a timbre that she needed to force or rehearse. In fact, that was a vocal approach that came naturally and involuntary to her. Jeremy Blaire, in turn, seemed to realize that special detail in the speech of the latest employee of the sanatorium, and that realization disarmed his passive-aggressive posture automatically. Not that he intended to use it against Skye Patzke without a good reason, of course.

"This is Jeremy. I'd like to speak to you in my office. Now." Nevertheless, he covered his voice up in a fabricated arrogant demeanor. Not to his surprise, it seemed painful to him that the boastful posture he used so naturally with everyone else appeared to be used so artificially when he was dealing with that woman.

"Certainly, _Mr. Blaire_." Before she could be left alone on the line, the brunette hung up. With a sigh of indifference, she stood up and headed to the bathroom. As someone who paraded for an audience, she put one foot in front of the other while walking, and her hips swayed with every step taken.

After tweaking her clothes and checking, unsurprised, that her flirty face and her silky hair remained as impeccable as usual, she went for the office door, opened it and left the room. As she crossed the halls of that wing of the building, the mere fact of her being there seemed to make the day of the scientists and other employees who crossed her path. All eyes were on her.

"You're hot!" Someone, probably many steps behind, since their compliment did not sound so loud, exclaimed at her back. She rolled her eyes and dropped a condescending laughter, not slowing her speed a single moment. Verbal harassment by colleagues would be unacceptable in any other institution.

But _any other institution_ was nothing like that one. That one was Mount Massive Asylum.


	2. Head Down

**Author's note** : Hi, guys! I must say this is my first story in English ever. I'm Brazilian, and yours is not my first language, so there can be a lot of grammar mistakes in the text. I'm so sorry for that. Anyway, I really hope you enjoy my character and the fanfiction. By the way, here comes the first appearance of Jeremy Blaire, Eddie Gluskin and Waylon Park. Thanks in advance! I heart you all.

* * *

Skye entered the impersonal big white office without knocking, noticing that, from the aspect of the conservation and neatness of the room, it didn't seem to be used very often. Jeremy Blaire, who was sitting with his back to the door, spun on his chair to identify the intruder, his jaw dropping out of indignation. As soon as he saw who was responsible for the sudden and rude entry, however, his features softened, and his torso leaned slightly over his desk. With his hands crossed over some papers, he gestured to a seat so she could take it. Skye, with arms folded over her full C-cups, sauntered slowly to the chair and sat. Then, she spent some seconds crossing her tanned legs while staring directly into the man's face, a light seduction sparkling in her iris.

The high-ranking Murkoff Corporation executive was an all-American charming man, despite his arrogance and his self-centered annoying foibles. His black hair was combed to the side of his head, and his smart eyes radiated the brilliance of penetrating shades of blue. His jaw line was strong and expressive, just like his thin lips were alluring. His body was actually quite built, his athletic figure and tall height being convenient to the position he occupied. His reputation among all the people who worked in those dependencies, though, wasn't the best: in order to keep the mountain of hideous secrets of the corporation within the limits of the sanatorium, he was a person able to torture and kill whoever put his modus operandi in danger. If there was a rumor that had potential to be a fact spreading through the employees of Mount Massive, it was to never, ever trust Blaire.

" _Shirt unbuttoned on purpose. What a cock-tease."_ He thought to himself, studying her carefully. His gaze wandered around the female arms and stopped by the wristwatch that the right one boasted. This, as it seemed, made a half-smile touch his mouth so fleetingly. The young doctor realized that change in the masculine countenance and, then, without any significant emotion, confirmed that one of her admirers was the important and richer than rich douche bag sitting in front of her.

"Good morning, Ms. Patzke." He started, borderline ironic. "Next time you come to my office, consider knocking in case you don't want to get fired."

"I didn't realize I was breaking into the ladies restroom. Oh, my." She mimicked an overly shocked expression in response, putting her hand over her mouth.

"Is that any way to talk to your boss, _young lady?"_

Skye heard the sarcasm soaking her boss's passive-aggressive voice, but did not care one bit. Shrugging, but keeping her smirk on, she made a tiny eye roll.

"I didn't think so. Anyway, let's get to the point. Despite the fact that you are in this facility for what have been only a few months now, you have managed to become a very popular member of the staff and the only esteemed therapist among many of our patients due to your..." Jeremy leaned back on his chair and intertwined his hands under his chin while locking eyes with her. "... non-orthodox methods." He then held a finger up. "And your methods are one of the things we are going to discuss to—"

" _Mr. Blaire?"_

The man wasn't really bothered by the interruption at all, and that was something that just didn't suit his bossy personality.

"Yes?" As a matter of fact, there was no way in hell he would let her know she was capable of changing his manner, even if it was just slightly. So, he sighed impatiently and let some artificial irritation light his eyes up.

"Would you happen to be a gardener?"

" _Excuse_ me?" He just stared back at her, clueless. "No."

"Then why are you beating around the _bush_?" She asked with a cocky smile on her lips, didn't looking annoyed as her comeback indicated she should be.

"Well, well, well." Aside from the fact that Jeremy was secretly amused by her boldness, he needed to regain control of the situation. "Skye, as my employee, you _will_ watch that little mouth of yours."

" _Oooooo._ "

" _Anyway_ , it had come to my personal attention that you are declining to get your patients restrained for the therapy sessions." Shifting his tone to a deep and threatening one, he tried his best to look authoritative and nailed it. "That, as you very well know, is entirely against our company policies."

With every word he spat at her, his ego grew more confident and abusive. The psychiatrist was aware of that and could not care less.

"I really shouldn't be having to remind you about our regulations at this point, Skye."

Under the weight of Blaire's words, somehow, Patzke's features took a ruthless and genuine seriousness. The doctor raised her delicate chin, resting her elbows on the arms of the chair she was sitting on and crossing her hands over her flat abs.

" _Mr. Buh-laire_ , don't you know something about policies, rules, any kind of laws?" She started, her voice so eerie he could not restrain an intern shiver, which she didn't seem to acknowledge. "They are for _cretins_. Somebody like me does _not_ need to know right from wrong. _I am always right_." Those words came through her mouth so naturally Blaire actually did not have a hard time believing he had just heard them.

"Well, be prepared to be treated like a special kind of _cretin_ , a transgressive one, because there _will_ be consequences if you go against our policies again, you know." He frowned upon her, putting a sarcastic disapproving attitude on, at which she yawned. He was kind of annoyed this time, but also fully aware that his little threat was more like a part of the facade he was sustaining to try to put her back in her place than a real caveat. He wasn't really going to punish a burning hot woman to whom he sent expensive presents every week. That first part of the uncomfortable conversation he'd started was, in fact, just an additional approach he was trying with her and also a way to let his own boss know he was not the kind of executive who treated his employees discriminately — nor the kind that was trying to fuck one of them.

"I better not take too much of your _precious_ time. Is that why you called me here, _Mr. Blaire_?" Whenever she called him "Mr. Blaire", the English honorific didn't sound polite. Instead, it seemed to be much more like a mocking term in her pretty, seductive mouth. Anyway, he waved this mental observation away and moved on.

"As I said before, you managed to be a trusted employee of the Murkoff Corporation in a short amount of time. That's why I think you are capable enough of taking a new step in your career here." Jeremy made a pause, during which he waited to see if she would be cheered up with a mistaken idea of a promotion or a better salary, but the beautiful figure in front of his desk just showed an interest formally built: her ponytail fell on her left shoulder, languid and lazy, while one of her legs was doing repetitive motions of shuttle. "I'm not talking about a promotion, so don't get your hopes up." He added, anyway.

"What so ever, _Mr. Buh-laire._ "

"Well, Ms. Patzke," He continued. "Today, you will pay a visit to the underground labs, where you will meet the Morphogenic Engine."

The executive paused again, waiting for a reaction. This time, he got one: the stunning Patzke's face lit up as if irradiated by a solar flare, and, with the grace of a mystic being, she flashed him a smile as white as alabaster. If Jeremy watched that expression with more caution, he would have found it exaggerated — therefore, dubious. However, he was secretly satisfied with a superficial glimpse of the beautiful vision and started pretending that the paperwork on his desk was the most interesting thing in the world, eyeing it. Doubting that the beauty of a woman could have a similar effect on someone, he associated the sudden pain in his corneas to the excess of fluorescent brightness in the room.

"I assume this visit is related to my ability, as a therapist, to report the effects that the Morphogenic Engine experiments have on its subjects." Whether her boss noticed the almost imperceptible hint of sarcasm in her voice or not, the young doctor couldn't tell. Not that it mattered to her. "Will I be the only therapist there?"

"Yes." He said, his gaze meeting hers. "As you very well know, you are one of the only therapists who know what the engine experiments really stand for. Besides, the others are not ready for the… exposure."

"Fair enough. And when do I leave to go there?"

"It would be best if you left immediately. I've got two buddies waiting for you by the elevator down the hall." With a curious agitation in his iris, he studied her face. "They'll give you security clearance and escort you. We don't need you touching anything that shouldn't get touched, do we? It could be dangerous." Jeremy then mocked and began tapping one of the documents in front of him with a pen.

" _Puuuh-lease._ " Patzke took a hand to her chest and rolled her eyes, as if she'd just listen to an extremely lame joke. Suddenly, she got up from her seat and slowly started to slink around the table in order to reach the man, who stiffened in his chair, curious at first. However, when he found himself only half a meter away from the young psychiatrist, in the silence of his mind, his curiosity assumed the form of alarm, and he began to spit and bark a thousand of mental, silent curses, simultaneously outraged at her daring and excited about the first almost unprofessional time between the two of them since he'd hired her and started to put his moves on her. As much as he wanted to, though, he couldn't verbalize any of his boiling emotions. His mouth was sealed by a force that his intelligence was unaware of. That, above all, was something that angered him, since it was way beyond being atypical of his persona.

He was awakened from his thoughts by the rubbing of Skye's delicate fingers on his right cheek. Her hands then slid down his neck and got to his plaid tie, slowly loosing it. After that, she went on to rub his lower lip with her thumb. Immediately, the boss's body was invaded by a peace and a comfort without precedents: the touch of the female skin was as soft as a feather pillow and as hot as a blazing fireplace. When he realized, their faces were centimeters away, and he could absorb the warmth that emanated from the brunette's curvy silhouette and breathe her cinnamon breath. Suddenly, the air around him got thicker, inhalation and exhalation becoming more difficult tasks. Under the weight of the sweet drunkenness he was drowning in, he closed his eyes and found out that something magnetic was drawing his mouth to Skye's full lips. To his mind, now cloudy, the most impressive thing was that, although all of that had occurred in a matter of seconds, he had the feeling that they both were inside that cozy proximity for hours. That was just crazy. He was fully aware of the twitching of his already hard dick in his pants. Unable to stand that torture made of prepayments any longer, he advanced towards the woman, giving in to the temptation of kissing her. However, before he could achieve his goal, he felt the heat that once embraced him dissipate and the coziness that Skye provided decrease. He quickly raised his eyelids and, enraptured by a mixture of anger, lust and amazement, saw her so cunningly and mockingly take a few steps backwards.

"You don't need _moi_ touching anything that shouldn't get touched now, do you?" She raised her hands to the height of her cheeks as if making it clear that the responsibility for those words was not hers for the taking, a loaded smile of irony glistening on her face, then shot a meaningful glare at his crotch. "It could be dangerous, _Mr. Buh-laire_."

When the subtle humiliation time was over, she headed to the door and, before abandoning the room, winked at him over her shoulder. "By the way, _boss_? You would look way hotter with a plain tie."

"Get back here." He snarled, the constant pulsing and throbbing in his groin doing nothing to make him feel less pathetic. " _Now,_ Skye."

To top things off for him, she just laughed his demanding off and left the office. This time, who was left behind was a beyond frustrated and kind of furious Jeremy Blaire.

She paraded with elegance to overcome the distance between the office of her boss and the elevator. During the short period she spent walking, all people found in her way twisted their necks to watch her closely, as if drawn by a magnetism. Some were affected by a sudden chill, but attributed it to malfunctioning heaters in that part of the building.

Shortly after, when the doors of the elevator slid open, the brunette found herself in a facility in which she had never put her sky-high pumps before. If it were not for the striking icy white color of the walls, the ceiling and the floor; if it were not for fire extinguishers hanging here and there; if it were not for the automatic doors dividing the sections of the place, the hallway that was facing her, giving access to several others, would be mistaken for the insides of an Antarctic cave. Escorted by the security men, she began walking with a slight air of superiority. Her shoes click-clacked on the ground with more noise than they would make in contact with any other surface. Once again, while passing by numerous other guards, she felt the attention of several stares on her.

At a certain point, when they approached a couple of scientists with clipboards in hands, the voluptuous doctor could not help but hear their dialogue:

"You're serious?"

"Sure."

"You got a girlfriend or somebody?"

"I'm married."

"How long since you've seen her? I haven't seen mine in three weeks."

"Three weeks? Pfff, that's nothing. I don't even remember the last time I saw my wife."

Skye shrugged after mocking that conversation's subject mentally: that was not a problem she could relate to. After all, she had no family, just friends — and all she needed at that moment was inside the premises of the hell which they called Mount Massive Asylum.

 _"Waylon Park, employee number one-four-six-six, report to Morphogenic Engine Monitoring immediately"_ , a voice sounded from the speakers set at the top of the walls. One of the security men directed her to a computer lab cramped with scientists and technologists. Beyond the ocean of men and machines, there was a wall of reinforced glass which blazoned the spacious room that held the Morphogenic Engine. At its heart, a gigantic piece of machinery buzzed, displaying LCD panels separated by a huge keyboard between its electronic endings. Above that entire set of devices, a massive rotating iron sphere laid. At last, on the ground, all around the engine, six large transparent pods waited to be filled up.

Patzke, not wanting to miss a single second of what might happen next, chose a position in front of the large wall that separated her from the monstrous machine and stood waiting. Without turning around, she could pay attention to every loose word in the atmosphere and distinguish what exact employee it came from. A particular group was discussing not only about the brain waves frequency of some patient, but also about its dreams:

"Let's see: long has the first two as guided dreams. Classified as: childhood, sexual, with reptile imagery."

The psychiatrist let a chuckle escape through her nose as she listened to the bizarre combination of words and tried to associate them to a dream. That was when, suddenly, she heard one of the automatic doors open and several hurried footsteps being followed by a thud against a chair. Somebody must have joined the meeting of psychopaths disguised as men of science.

"Park. Finally. Where have you been? The Functional Imaging interface isn't talking to the ASL. We've got a patient thirty seconds out and we're blind inside his head." A bid-nosed guy dressed in an aqua garb barked at Waylon Park. "Jesus, Park!" And, at the sound of the name of the deity, Skye's whole body shuddered. "We need you to—" Suddenly, however, his voice trailed off as he got dispersed by something coming from inside the engine room.

Entertained, Patzke bit her lower lip, forgetting completely the minor annoyance of seconds ago, and focused all her attention on the scene that unfolded itself in the following moments, a small smile twisting her bitten mouth: a tall man, well-built with hard muscles, was being dragged against his will across the room and struggled to get rid of the three individuals that contained him. The dim light of the environment prevented her from properly seeing his face.

"Fuck me. They've got Gluskin out of his cell. Park, get on with it." The bid-nosed kept barking at Waylon, who, by the rapid sound of keys being pressed that wondered around the atmosphere, seemed to start doing his job.

"I could call into the chamber, ask them to delay..." Another man in green suggested, but was interrupted.

"No. I don't need another performance evaluation. Mr. Park here is going to have us up and running before we even know it. Right, Mr. Park?"

But Park didn't answer. He just kept typing.

"Uh, Steve? fMRI is still dark."

"You're doubting our friend Mr. Waylon Park? Which I consider more than unkind to to his programming skill and considerable dedication to the Murkoff Corporation."

Skye would roll her eyes in response to that stupid conversation, but, in that instance, her focus was fully connected to the scenery in front of her face, behind the glass wall: her ears could capture perfectly the horrific screams of Gluskin, who squirmed to get away from the men who had still been trying to restrain him and hook him up into the pod. _Well, well, well._

"I KNEW IT WAS COMING, YOU FILTHY FUCKING MACHINES! You FUCKING MACHINES! No! No, not again! No! No! Jack-booted FUCKS! I know what you've been doing to me! I knew it! HELP! Help me! Help me, they're going to rape me! Rape! RAPE!" He yelled continuously while still contorting under the oppressive men's grip. Finally, as he got loose from their grasp, he ran to the glass that separated the engine room from the monitoring lab. With a hollow thud, his body collided against the transparent barrier, completely naked, right in front of the female strange that was carefully watching him.

That was a man of aristocratic beauty. His powerful jaw line and strong traits were the perfect combination for his physique. He wore a somewhat unusual haircut: his head was shaved bald with the exception of some silky black hair being combed back toward the center of his skull. His arched eyebrows gave his faces an extreme shade of malice, enlivening his big blue icy eyes, and his proportional aquiline nose lay above his attractive mouth, which had thin lips and a perfect dentition.

The stomach of the young doctor roared, and she almost began hypersalivating at that sight. That guy was definitely a _3-T,_ a slang of her own with an obscure meaning.

"HELP ME! Don't let them do this! Don't let them!" Desperate, the inmate would bang his fists against the wall, searching the lab with his eyes for help, when, all of a sudden, his glance pierced the female figure a few steps ahead of him, flickering as if an intuition had just crossed his mind. "YOU!" Quickly, he poked the glass with his index finger. "I know YOU can stop this! YOU HAVE TO HELP ME! YOU HAVE TO—"

Then, he saw her hold a finger to her lips, which were twisted in a taunting smile, as if she was giving him an ironic gesture for silence. This was distractive enough for his guard to lower, and the men who once were dragging him towards the pods managed to grab his arms again. Skye looked away, shrugging with scorn, and rested her gaze on Park, who had jumped up from his chair, startled.

Waylon was a skinny, medium heighted and fair-haired guy. There was nothing remarkable about his image.

An agent grabbed the programmer's forearm, exclaiming:

"HEY! Calm yourself! This is a high security—"

"It's all right, agent. Mr. Park was just surprised. I'm sure he's still calm, eager, and ready to finish his work. Take your seat." Steve, the bid-nosed demanding scientist, motioned to the seat in front of the computer at which the Waylon had been working, and the guy returned to occupy it. "Quickly, Mr. Park! A head will need to roll if perfusion monitoring isn't active when they put Gluskin in the engine."

The psychiatrist, who went back to eyeing Gluskin through the glass wall, watched while the asylum orderlies tried to push the patient into one of the transparent chambers around the engine, to which he responded with insults and punches. With one arm folded over her chest, she held a finger to her chin, as though reflecting on something, and happened to focus all of her attention on the pods. Then, finally, the guards dominated the freaked out experiment subject and shoved a tube down his throat, pushing him into one of the spheres.

"There he goes. Five seconds. Four... Three... Two—"

An overpowering noise of glass shattering echoed through both Morphogenic Engine and computer lab rooms. A few scientists covered their ears and crouched; others screamed the worst curses they could think of; Park hid under his desk. On the other side of the wall, the three guys who escorted Gluskin ran away from the point of the explosion. The patient, however, too stunned by the sudden event, rose from the floor and, after tearing the tube from his trachea, looked around. His gaze wandered by the panorama of the monitoring room until finding Patzke there: standing tall, pride, superb, now with both arms folded over her full C-cups. What he saw her do next left him without any thoughts in his mind: slowly, she winked. Confused, but willing to disappear from that hellish place, he propelled his muscular body towards the exit and ran with all the speed he was capable of achieving at that moment.


	3. Free Falling

**Author's note:** Hi, guys! I hope you're enjoying my fanfiction. The next chapter will take some time to be published, for I'm still working on it. I'm seriously dying to know your opinion about the story. It would be very nice if I could get some tips from you to help me better my writing skills, also. Thanks in advance, I heart you.

* * *

August 20th, 2013

The next day, the seductive Skye Patzke sat at her desk, using her charming handwriting to write observations about Dennis, who had left her office fifteen minutes before, down in her work diary. Worry-free, she yawned and, although that wasn't her favorite perfume, breathed in the aroma of the vanilla scented candles on her table. For the occasion, which didn't require anything at all, that sweet essence would do the trick to make the atmosphere a little cozier. Without sticking her thoughts to anything in particular, she slid her thumbnail over her new black diamond bracelet, a treat she found over her papers as soon as she woke up in the morning. This time, there was a note attached to the package:

 _"Ms. Patzke,_

 _Since I assume the worst is over, it seems like a good opportunity now for us to talk about what happened yesterday in my office. I mean, why wouldn't it be?_

 _Yours,_

 _Jeremy Blaire"_

After reading the message, she just rolled her eyes, snorting, and decided to ignore the invitation at first. Blaire sure had his physical appeal, but he was far from having the potential to make her meet a request like that without insistence — or begging, for that matter. The bracelet, however, wouldn't hurt hanging around her tiny wrist.

Much to her amusement, she couldn't help observing he'd risked being reported to his boss for sending an expensive present to an employee — which could count as harassment — by signing his own name across a card stick on it, and for what cause? Just because of the little show she'd put on the day before? _Puh-lease._ It was very clear that her boss had stepped on her bear trap for good, now more than ever. Let _leetle_ Jeremy think he could play with fire without getting burned. Let _leetle_ white-collar jerk think he had the poise.

 _First objective accomplished._

Rising from her seat and rolling along the office, she laughed to herself while remembering the events of the previous day. Almost nothing could have been more delightful to her than the chaos among the staff on the past eve. To everyone, the fate of their jobs seemed utterly compromised in face of the disaster occurred with the Morphogenic Engine pods, and, somehow, after practically suffering a secret seizure in his office and making a few phone calls to his superiors, Blaire managed to be the only one able to restore the order by ensuring that the whole situation was under control and that the machine's damaged devices would be replaced within forty-eight hours. _Poor, poor jobless-to-be bastards_.

The phone ringing subtracted her from recalling the funny episode. She returned to her chair, grabbed the handset and took it to her ear.

"You have reached the _faaabulous_ Skye Patzke, what can I do for you?" Already expecting to hear the voice of her passive-aggressive boss, she asked.

"Ms. Patzke?"

"Oh. Good morning, _Hiltooon_!" She hummed, not knowing exactly why she was so relieved that it was just Hilton who called her. "How can I help you?"

"Uh, good morning, Ms. Patzke." The man coughed once, charmed; he could never get used to that woman's disdain for professionalism etiquette, but that didn't upset him in any way. "You have an appointment scheduled with a patient within five minutes."

"Name and identification number, _puh-lease._ " Starting to play with the phone wire, she rested her crossed legs on the table, bored, and said. Her emphasized _"puh-lease"_ clarified that her words transmitted an order, not a request.

"The patient number is 196, his name is Eddie Gluskin. Age: 46." He paused before continuing. "You must know he is a high-risk patient."

Skye sat properly straight when she heard the identification.

"Send him in." And then she shot the handset down on the hook.

Contrarily to what advertised all her expectations, that afternoon went on to bear the promise of some fun.

Ten minutes passed when a loud knock broke the silence in the environment.

"Come in." Skye said casually and watched the entry of a man of a very appellative beauty flanked by two security guards, who seized him by his arms. They sat him on the chair and prepared to restrain his body with more leather straps than they actually used to contain other patients, but the therapist held up her palm, attracting their attention and freezing their movements.

"Ms. Patzke, this is a high-risk patient."

"That. Won't. Be. Necessary." She started talking, her voice darkening and her eyes widening a little more with every word spoken. Although a polite smile remained on her lips, her iris took the familiar creepy glow that was famous among the entire staff of the sanatorium.

Stripped of courage to make a single protest, the men left Gluskin sitting in his seat. One of them handed the doctor an envelope, holding it with almost petty fingers, and deposited it in her hands. Printed on the cover, there was a message: "Ms. Patzke, when interviewing Eddie Gluskin, make sure to present him the photographs attached to the following file. Proceed with caution".

"That will be all." The woman, who stood with her eyes fixed on the envelope, said, but the security men didn't make a move.

"It is a security regulation that we stay in the room during appointments arranged with high-risk patients."

The moment they saw her shoot a poisonous glare in their direction without moving a centimeter of the rest of her body, however, the men exchanged a look and did not think twice before storming out of the office, closing the door behind them. Finally satisfied, Patzke brought her ponytail to her right shoulder, patting it, and was so engrossed in the delight of getting everything she wanted that just forgot to react to the fact that she was being watched by Eddie the whole time.

"We've met before, haven't we?" His voice was soft, tender, sounding with exemplar politeness and eloquence, which was kind of unexpected from a patient in that place. "I know I've seen your face."

Only then, she stared back at him, suppressing a laugh of debauchery, and saw that he was holding a flirtatious half-smile on his lips.

"Hello, Eddie Gluskin." She leaned forward on the table, blew out the flame of the candles and sat back. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you without having a stupid glass wall in front of me."

Sudden disconnection with reality swept any facial expression of Gluskin, who dived deep into a mental search for something he couldn't find with ease. In a minute, he was tuned and flirty. Next, he was carrying himself out of the social universe. When Skye realized his inner journey, she came to the conclusion that she would wait until he returned from it — on a whim.

"Oh, darling!" Then, after five minutes of absence, the man answered. "I knew I had seen your face as soon as I walked into this room." All the charm of a conqueror gentleman returned to his face, but his eyes were glistening as if they were set upon a defenseless prey. "You have a... remarkable charm."

"What a sweetie." With a bright smile, she stood up and drove her body over the table to throw her arms around his shoulders. Eddie couldn't react, not even when, still wrapped in the scent of the unexpected hug, he got pecked on the lips, because it all happened in a matter of seconds. Next thing he knew, like nothing had happened, his newest therapist was sitting on her chair again. "So, Mr. Gluuuskin," He heard her humming his name casually, uncertain about how he should respond to what just happened in that room. "I'm Dr. Skye Patzke. I will be your therapist until my services are no longer needed." A short pause followed her words. "I bid you welcome to our first therapy session. It is _my_ study of the human psyche — specifically yours!" She seemed particularly excited about that when she rubbed her hands together.

Gluskin's brain was cloudy. Why was that woman acting that way? It was absolutely inappropriate for someone in her position. Besides, didn't she know who he was and what he had done to deserve a cell in that sanatorium? Any sane person, once acknowledging his past, would know better than to be so careless around him, this was for sure. Was she even a sane person at all? Yes, it was true that every detail in that creature was alluring as hell, but, in spite of this, her free demonstration of intimacy was almost disturbing. For what he knew, that whole situation could have been planned to catch him off guard and somehow make it seem like he needed some more meetings with the engine. Somehow—

" _Mr-Glus-kin!_ " Skye clapped three times to shatter his name to three pieces, her eyebrows raised and her voice loud, hoping to get the attention that was hers by right. When his big icy blue eyes fell with mischief on her face, she displayed a smile that balanced between pride and satisfaction.

"Doctor." He replied, smirking.

If his thoughts were navigating through disturbing questions moments ago, now, they were established on two possibilities that would be both favorable to him: it was possible that that female approach was some kind of lure, in fact, but it was also possible that the therapist was: A, an example of a beautiful flower sprouting in the bog that was the scenario of his life; or B, just an example of a misguided sheep running into a hungry wolf's lair. At that point of his existence, he no longer believed that A could occur in practice. Therefore, he chose B, which served to mute the uneasiness in his spirit again. However, if the fact that, during the short time of the kiss, she'd nosed him out hadn't escape his notice, there would likely be an option C on his list of alternatives.

"During the next sixty minutes, I'm going to ask you some questions. Are you willing to comply?"

"For you, darling, I'll answer anything."

This time, Skye didn't hug or kiss him. All she did was wink charmingly and return her focus to what came out of the envelope. Like announced on its cover, its content were some photographs and a data sheet. While analyzing them, she took one hand to the side of her neck and began massaging the spot.

Prior to being imprisoned in Mount Massive, Eddie Gluskin was a dangerous predator: a serial killer. His victims were women, and his modus operandi was to mutilate them horribly in order to cause their deaths. Also, his childhood was filled with several episodes of incestuous sexual abuse, practiced by his father and an uncle with traumatizing physical brutality.

The doctor glared at the patient, studying him. One didn't have to resort to long years of study on the human psyche to understand the correlation between cause and effect on that man's chart. It was unquestionably likely that children subjected to constant violence, especially if in their family midst, would grow up to be abusive adults — or at least disturbed ones. That same pattern, as a matter of fact, repeated itself with numerous systematic criminals around the world. In her opinion, Gluskin was just as guilty of his atrocities as the individuals who turned him into someone capable of committing them. To have that in mind, however, didn't make her believe that life was unfair to him or to any other killer with a similar past. In fact, if the whole thing didn't amuse her to the bone, she couldn't care less.

"Mr. Gluskin, did you achieve a lucid dreaming state during your last exposure to the Morphogenic Engine?" She asked, applying a fresh coat of her MAC Russian Red.

"Yes! I've been in constant control of my dreams lately. I could actually say I'm now capable of hearing the Walrider's voice just by closing my eyes. Quite clearly, indeed."

"You didn't look so confident about your progress yesterday, if you know what I mean."

"With all due respect, doctor, I am not concerned of your first impressions about me. My self-control is a fact. That's all there is to it."

Since she knew he was only saying what he thought she wanted to hear, for the document in front of her stated that he had not achieved that much progress with the Morphogenic Engine yet, she wrote down in her assessment of him that he was probably trying to be spared from more experiment sessions by lying. Suddenly, she raised a photograph that showed a line of brutally mutilated female corpses, holding it between the tip of her thumb and her index finger, and stretched her arm until the piece of paper was only an inch from the face of the interviewee, who retreated with politeness, but looked confused.

"Why did you mutilate and kill these women, Mr. Gluskin? What kind of emotions did you feel when you were taking their lives?"

She could see the exact second that Eddie, finally analyzing what was presented to him, put a fake expression of resentment on, as if seriously offended, and straightened his posture — already perfect.

"Pardon me, but I don't see how these women are dead. In fact, I'd say they are very much alive. And beautiful."

The therapist turned the image of the dead women around to look at it and cocked an eyebrow. After a quick mental note, she came up with a little contempt grimace, shrugging, and rested the photo on the table.

" _Puh-lease_." He heard his doctor say. "All of them have horrible hair, and one has a tan that is a _prima facie case_ of ugliness. Tell me, did you pick your victims randomly or did they all have to be _guh-ross_?"

Gluskin's jaw dropped immediately. Somehow, she was blowing his mind so far with her irreverent manners. He could bet anything in the world that no other psychiatrist talked to its patients like that. Besides, her sense of humor — because he knew she had to be just joking around, right? — was kind of wicked, and that was starting to amuse him. Such amusement, by the way, didn't even make any sense, for he had no taste for irreverent women. Nevertheless, before he could give her a proper answer, she continued talking:

"Oh, well. Never mind them. What's dead is dead." She studied another picture and tried not to snort at the horrendous sight of two old men raping a child. "Let's move on to the next subject, shall we? Tell me about your childhood, Mr. Gluskin."

He seemed to forget about his previous shock, apparently getting excited about that question in particular, and eyed the ceiling. Like trying to recall some memories — or rather trying to fabricate some story about his early life —, he said:

"Ah, my childhood! Yes, of course. I'd say I miss those times. I was what you'd expect any curious little boy to be."

"That is _ah-dorable_ , but what about your relationship with your family? Did you guys get along?" The young doctor asked, her body shaking with suppressed laughter, but Gluskin didn't notice that minor detail in her behavior.

"Of course, yes! Mom and Dad loved each other very much, and I was most dear to them."

"Like this?" She then showed him the hideous photo, holding back a smile. The minute Eddie laid his gaze on it, his soft expression quickly shifted into a shade of raw, pure hatred. His whole body started to shake, a stream of deranged laughter bursting through his lips. His eyes widened as his iris started darting from a spot to another aimlessly. He hung his head down, his voice becoming raspy from the guffaw, until he couldn't laugh anymore.

"FILTHY RAPIST BASTARDS!" The scream filled the office with dark tension while he shot up from his chair and banged his fists on the desk. "FUCKING PIGS!"

Skye rose from her seat as well, their gazes meeting. His body suddenly jerked with surprise: he didn't know what exactly was that thing gleaming in her eyeballs, only that it was demoniac. Staring into those cloud gray orbs was worse than peeking at the sun through a telescope, just as horrible as looking at that dreaded photograph.

" _Sit down._ " To his secret horror, which was mixed with the reminiscent trembling of his anger, what came through her mouth was definitely not a voice, but a tormenting, disturbing nightmare. It could have sounded like a human tone initially, but dominated his mood and his body cells with the hidden persuasion of a paranormal being, sending violent shivers down his spine. Automatically, not even knowing why, he obeyed her command. She sat back down, a bright smile flashing through her face, and, after sighing with satisfaction, her countenance became all serious.

He was so lost between the pain of recalling his childhood traumas and the terror of staring into that diabolic gaze he could not afford rising his head to lock eyes with her again. Instead, he just remained still on his chair, his head hanging down. Thick puffs of air made their way through his grinding teeth as his mental defense mechanism tried desperately to push both of the horrendous feelings away. However, its struggle proved itself to be unsuccessful.

"Oh, what's the matter? You're always the one leading sadistic games?" She taunted. "No one can turn the tables and play with your mind for a change?" Still not being able to look at her, he scowled and clenched his fists. The atmosphere which comprised the office, operating as a despot who used its manipulative skills in order to abuse the psyche of its victims, began to evolve to a dense, suffocating storm with the passing seconds. He could sense the changes in the environment and had to admit to himself: the feeling that came with them was unbearable.

"Why… Why would you do this to me?" His tone dripped with anger and indignation, but his eyes could not rise to her face yet.

Suddenly, the ambience softened. The oxygen became breathable again, just like the weather after a thunderstorm is peaceful and quiet.

"Fear not, _sweetie_. I'm only saying this because I want to help you." In the blink of an eye, her words went back to be velvety and sweet. "That is why I have some reality check for you." The doctor started gesturing to the place around them with her arms. "Welcome to Mount Massive Asylum. It's a major dump. In case you don't remember how you got here, let me help you." A mocking smile appeared in her mouth. "As a misogynist killer, you got caught by the law and charged for murder, but somehow managed to be found not guilty by reason of insanity. Now, guess who's to blame."

Gluskin didn't answer.

"Oh, you don't know? Allow me. Two sexually frustrated pedophiles. They changed you to a point that you fucked things up really bad and ended up here." She seemed to conclude at first, clapping once, but continued talking. "But don't kid yourself thinking you are a victim, because it was you who let two losers be responsible for your complete failure. And that, my _leetle_ fellow, turns you into a loser as well."

That was enough, he'd had it. Who the fuck did that slut think she was to talk to him — a man — like that? No. That was intolerable. There was no way he would be intimidated by a woman like those stupid security men seemed to be.

Her hellish eyes, though.

"Is that your way of trying to help me, doctor? How dare you!" He hissed, building enough courage to shoot her a deadly glare. "Oh, Lord. How dare you!"

"I'm not finished." Skye looked calm and playful, carefree, while eyeing him with fabricated condescendence. "Years have passed since your relatives abused you, yet two mere photographs they took can make you go _toe-dally_ batshit insane all of a sudden."

"You would NEVER understand!" Eddie roared. Then, like some powerful sadness had fallen on his shoulders, he hung his head down again, and his voice became heavy with consternation. "The things those men made me do… when I was small… when I didn't know how filthy it was… Only that it hurt…"

In the blink of an eye, his idea of withstanding the sudden unpleasantness that came with the psychiatrist's demeanor was wiped away by the necessity of putting down in words how he was dealing with the bitterness of his past.

"There is a way you can evolve to a winner, Eddie. Only losers dwell on the past. You have to bury yours." She made a pause, then stretched her arm and offered him a handshake. "I am the only one who can help you with that."

He slowly glanced up at her hand, his jaw hanging open in disbelief. His eyes traveled to her face and captured a beautiful, friendly smile. Beside the fact that it looked truly sincere, at that point, his mind was too shocked for him to display any kind of resistance. She raised both her eyebrows, motioning to her hanging palm with a nod.

"Don't despair, Eddie. Allow yourself to be free."

Finally, he shook her hand. The real motive escaped him, for he actually didn't considered accepting the doctor's help after being insulted so many times by her. Nevertheless, now that what's done was done, while her hand squeezed his in that handshake, he felt paralyzed. When a deep shudder ran throughout his body, his spirit became deeply uneasy. Despairing, his brain started scrambling thoughts about how he should consider adding an option C to his list of alternatives concerning the therapist, because, for some reason, at that very moment, Gluskin was starting to feel like he had just made a pact with the devil.

Well, he had.


End file.
